the minor fall, the major lift
by missmelon12
Summary: Yuuri is the rising star of the Figure Skating world. He's one of the best figure skaters the world has ever seen, but in the time between he is an anxious mess, pushing himself too hard, overdoing it again and again, determined that every performance outshine the last. Until he injures himself in a fall during practice.
1. Chapter 1

Yuuri no longer felt anything when he went to the kiss and cry. He sat there, tired, head leaned back against the wall, towel heavy around his sweaty neck, and he felt nothing but utter exhaustion and pain. Gone was the anxiety he used to feel at the beginning of his career, when he would sit there beside Celestino, bouncing his leg, fidgeting, biting his lip until it bled. In its place had come the numbness of too many years of repetition, of winning and losing and failing and succeeding.

He no longer felt anything after, only before.

He'd thrown up before his final program, kneeling on the dirty bathroom floor of the restrooms, anxiety at an all time high, as it often was before he hit the ice. His entire career so far had been built upon pushing himself harder and harder, striving to be better than better, because he could be, because he had to be.

All of Japan was watching, the world was watching. The expectations placed upon his shoulders were high.

He was one of the best, now, but there was always that thought that he would fail, that he would let everyone down and the world would see it, cameras all on him. His family, watching the stream from Japan, his coach, the other skaters.

He shook as he sat on the bench, hiding his tremor in the white knuckled grip he had on his water bottle. He was tired, he was always tired and his body always hurt, his constant anxiety leading up to the competitions his only distraction from how hard he was pushing himself.

Celestino sat beside him, stone faced as the score was finally read. He barely heard it himself, dazed, but suddenly his coach was in his ear, voice high and excited, an arm thrown around him. Yuuri blinked quickly, looking up at the scoreboard.

"—won gold, Yuuri!" Celestino was saying, his voice drowned out by the sound of the announcer.

"Four time consecutive Grand Prix medalist, Yuuri Katsuki of Japan, has taken his second Gold at the Grand Prix Finals!" The voice came to him as if through a fog and he sat there for too long a moment, even as his coach jumped to his feet, amazed, processing it.

He'd won gold again.

Yuuri pushed a smile onto his face and waved as the camera lingered on him, eager for his reaction. And inside he was happy, almost giddy, but he was also tired and weak from the intensity of his free program and he stumbled as he stood, Celestino catching him with a steady grip. He paused for the briefest moment, looking down at Yuuri with a concerned look but he shook his head, waylaying his worry, grinning all the more.

"I won," he mouthed to his coach and he smiled back, laughing, slapping him gently on the back.

"Don't look so surprised," Celestino said. "Your programs were amazing, you were guaranteed to place!"

By the time he reached the medal ceremony he was barely able to stand, his feet aching, his legs sore and wobbly. He'd barely eaten since his plane had touched down a few days earlier for the event, and he was feeling it now, all other distractions now gone except for the weight of the gold medal that hung around his neck.

He stood out on the ice with the silver and bronze winners, smiling and waving, large bouquet of flowers in his arms. The world came in and out of focus, made worse by his lack of glasses, and he was dizzy from the flashing of the cameras, the loud voice of the announcers, the frenzy of the audience looking on.

He wondered how bad he looked, in the pale reflection of light from the ice rink beneath his feet, in the light of the cameras. He'd had circles under his eyes when he'd woken that morning, had spent too long applying a careful layer of foundation over it, blending it out until he looked somewhat normal. Presentation was important to the judges, to the world watching him and judging him.

But he was sweaty now, and tired, a fine tremor running through him as he waved and went through the motions. His hair was beginning to fall from its careful grooming, coming to settle about his eyes and about his face as it did normally.

But his smile was genuine and real and he felt on cloud nine as he finally skated back to the edge of the rink, practically falling into Celestino's arms, ecstatic as he was weak.

* * *

Later was the press conference and he was ushered to it from the rink as fast as could be and he sat, thankful for the ability to hide behind the table and a microphone, less exposed to the world and the flashing cameras.

"What's next for you?" a reporter asked, seated in the front row, and he frowned and considered it himself.

He had no answer. He'd thrown himself into the sport when he was too young even to know what he was really throwing himself into and now, here he was, one of the best in the world.

He'd won too many medals to count and he felt anxious at the thought of not skating anymore. He didn't know what to do with himself without the ice. It was all he had known, it was all he was really good at.

At the lingering silence, the reporter pushed him. "Do you have plans to compete again next season? Do you have your eyes set on the World Championships?"

He blinked, startled. "Absolutely," he said slowly, turning the words around in his head, over analyzing them as he always did before he spoke. "I'll be competing in the next season, and I expect it to top even this one."

From the sidelines Celestino shot him a curious look and he ignored it, smiling.

"My best years are yet to come," he finished, leaning back from the mic. And he truly felt it, because what else was there for him?

He could always be better. There was always room for improvement.

* * *

His brief conference was all anyone was talking about as they finally left, his tired face plastered on every screen in the arena lobby. "My best years are yet to come," echoed from every corner, and he walked along beside Celestino, focusing only on putting one foot in front of the other.

The crowds had long since left and it was just him and his coach and the other competitors finally leaving, all of them in tracksuits, bags hefted onto their shoulders. Celestino held his own bags for him, and Yuuri was thankful.

A figure stepped into his periphery and he looked up, startled to see one of the Junior Competitors stopped, glaring over at him.

Yuri Plisetsky. He'd taken gold. It was his last Grand Prix before he was eligible for Senior Division.

His brown eyes met Yuri's bright blue ones and he froze, suddenly anxious again out of nowhere. He'd run into Yuri as he'd left the bathrooms before his program, stumbling and anxious, on the tail end of his pre-competition panic attack. The kid had taken one look at him, his pale face and tear streaked cheeks, and sneered, turning his nose up at him as he walked passed.

Celestino stopped too, looking him over with concern. "Yuuri?" he began and Yuuri snapped out of it, breaking eye contact.

"Sorry," he said quietly. Falling into step again with his coach. "I'm coming."

A taxi was waiting for them outside, to take them to the hotel, and Yuuri sat in the back seat, gazing out at the street as it whirled by. He'd finally gotten time to slip his glasses on but the lights were still spots of blur through the light sprinkling of rain coming down in the waning light from the coming dusk.

Beside him, Celestino kept looking over as if to say something and Yuuri waited, preparing himself mentally for whatever was on the man's mind.

"Listen, Yuuri," he finally started, turning slightly in the back seat to better look at him. Yuuri refused to meet his eyes. "Maybe you should reconsider this next season. Take a season off."

Yuuri froze in his seat, curling his fingers together in his lap.

"You've less than a year of college left, after all." His coach's voice was uncharacteristically soft and it hurt Yuuri all the more, the gentle demeanor that told him his coach was hesitant to say what he wanted, for fear of upsetting him.

That's how he was, the way others saw him. A world renowned figure skater, an anxious mess in the times in between.

At his silence, Celestion cleared his throat and plowed onward. "You've been pushing yourself too hard lately, your free program was beyond words but after—" He paused, dropping a hand onto Yuuri's shoulder. "You're pushing yourself too hard," he said again.

Yuuri chanced a glance at him, at last, shrugging out of the man's grip. He plastered a smile onto his face but he didn't really feel it. "Really," he said. "I'm fine. I'm not pushing myself too hard."

And maybe it was a lie, but pushing himself helped with everything else. He practiced all the time, during his time with Celestino, in secret in his free time. And skating was cathartic to him, a way to push off all the anxiety, all the stress of everyday and lose himself in something beautiful and creative.

He didn't just push himself because he felt he had to, too many expectations rained down upon him, but because he wanted too, because skating had become everything to him.

Celestino sighed and looked away, finally. "Alright," he murmured. "Just think about it."

Yuuri didn't.

* * *

Yuuri facetimed with Phichit while he prepared for the banquet. It was in less than an hour and Yuuri had had just enough time to shower and do his hair once arriving at the hotel. He sat on the edge of his hotel bed while he laced his shoes, Phichit's voice washing over him, excited.

"Another gold, Yuuri! I'd say I can't believe it but I totally can. I watched the whole event live and your programs were the best, the _best_. Yuuri! You were fantastic!"

His longtime friend hadn't placed to make it to the finals and had ultimately decided to remain back in Detroit instead of attending as a guest. But even with his limited amount of time, Yuuri wanted to speak to him.

His voice was a welcome familiarity against his nerves as he prepared to leave.

Yuuri finished with his shoes and picked up his phone, bringing his face back into view of the camera. He grinned wide and Phichit smiled back. "T-thanks," he said, scratching at the back of his head. "I did alright, didn't I?"

And Phichit laughed. "Yuuri, you're too hard on yourself. You just won _gold_!"

"Yeah, I won gold," he echoed.

Celestino called to him from the adjoining room and he looked up as the man poked his head in "The taxi will be here in five," he told him, beaming. Gone was his concern from before. He had let it go, for now, it seemed. "Are you sure you're up for attending tonight? No one will blame you if you decide not to—"

Yuuri shook his head, interrupting him. "No, no. I'll be out in a moment."

He bid goodbye to Phichit and stood, at last, moving to glance at himself in the bathroom mirror. He looked as tired as he felt, hair slicked back, face pale beneath the bathroom fluorescents. He'd lost a bit of weight since he'd last had cause to where the suit he'd chosen and it was ill fitting, hanging almost loose from his frame.

He looked down at his glasses, which he'd cast aside while getting ready, considering them. His vision wasn't so bad that he couldn't make it through the night without them, but he grabbed them anyway, sliding them onto his face and bringing his appearance into better focus.

He looked rough, but it would have to do.

* * *

They arrived a bit late, Celestino practically dragging him in. The man himself seemed rather excited to be there and he parted ways from him the moment he had finally decided Yuuri would manage without him.

All of the other skaters were already there with the exception of the select few who enjoyed being more fashionably late. In one corner, the junior skaters huddled in their own group, Yuri Piletsky among them. They made the briefest amount of eye contact across the room and Yuuri looked away, pushing the kid from his thoughts.

There were hors d'oeuvres set up, and a long table covered in delicate flutes of champagne. He made his way there first, grabbing a flute and downing it for his nerves. He grabbed a second one to get him through the rest of it and set about mingling.

Everyone stopped to speak to him, once they realized he was there, offering their congratulations and kind words and he made dreaded small talk for what felt like ages, thankful for the alcohol.

He was grateful for the praise, but humble and awkward throughout all of it, despairing a little more every time a new stranger approached him.

He'd made it through almost three flutes, his cheeks flushed, by the time he was able to pull himself to the corner and away from the crowd for a brief moment. It didn't last more than a few minutes before he was approached by yet another person and he plastered a weak smile on his face, forcing eye contact, as was polite.

The man was different than most of the other sponsors floating about, tall and elegant in a way that reminded him more of the other skaters. His hair was short and silver, eyes a pale, gray-blue, and he smiled a smile that made Yuuri's knees weak.

And there was something familiar about him that Yuuri couldn't quite place, a feeling of almost nostalgia looking at him that stirred something—

He blinked, eyes going wide. "Victor," he said. "Victor Nikiforov."

The man smiled wider, extending his hand, and Yuuri fumbled his champagne from one hand to another in order to shake it. "You know me," he noted. His English was flawless, his Russian accent thick and delicate. Yuuri briefly thought he might faint to have the man standing before him.

"Yeah," he said, throat tight. He swallowed down the nerves, his whole body feeling suddenly light and flush. The champagne was beginning to make him light hearted. "You were my idol, you're the reason I became a skater."

Victor stepped closer, closing what little distance was already between them. "I'm aware," he said playfully. His voice was the epitome of charming, his posture inviting in a way that made Yuuri blush deep.

He opened his mouth to ask how he could know such a thing, but he was beaten to the punch. "You were interviewed by a major magazine a few years ago, I forget which one," Victor told him, smirking, taking a small sip of his drink. "They quoted you on that."

Victor had been the leading figure skater in the world, from the time he was in Junior's until he had graduated into the Senior division. He was still heralded as one of the greatest skaters to ever touch the ice and Yuuri had grown up watching him skate, had taken notes, had strived to be as good as him.

And then Victor was injured, had gone down during a Grand Prix final, performing a jump he had performed hundreds of times before. Yuuri knew, because he'd watched every one of his performances.

It was a fluke of bad luck, a legendary skater pushing himself too hard, flubbing a jump in the worst possible way. He'd come down wrong and damaged his knee.

He'd been carried off the ice.

And Victor had been a shoe in for his fifth medal, likely a gold. He'd been a World Championship hopeful, an Olympic hopeful. He'd been almost the age Yuuri was now. He'd done one more season, placing bronze with consistency, and then he'd quietly retired, unable to return to what he had once been, before his injury.

Yuuri had watched that final season with growing sadness to see such a talented skater taken out so early.

And now the man himself stood in front of him, smiling flirtily, champagne flute held lazily in one hand. He looked different now, hair shorter, his suit neat and well tailored, but he wore the same personality he always had on the ice.

"I have posters of you on my walls," Yuuri said idly, without thinking, and then immediately turned bright red, realizing himself and the looseness that had come to his tongue in the wake of too much champagne. "I mean—"

Victor laughed and it was the loveliest sound.

Yuuri cleared his throat and tried again. "What are you doing here?" he asked, casting his eyes about the room. Everyone seemed to be ignoring them, leaving them alone in the corner Yuuri had tucked himself into and he almost prayed for someone to come over and interrupt, to save him from making a fool of himself in front of his idol.

"Ahh," Victor murmured, tilting his flute ever so slightly in the direction of the junior skaters, where they had awkwardly gathered together. "I'm Yuri Plisetsky's coach," he told him. "Such a handful, that one, but I'm sorry to say this will be my last season coaching him."

Yuuri frowned. "He won gold," Yuuri said, looking to where the Russian Yuri leaned against a wall slightly away from the others, scowl on his face. He looked to be having the worst time imaginable. "Has he— Has he fired you?"

What an inappropriate question to ask and Yuuri immediately bit his lip, regretting it.

Victor didn't seem to find it intrusive at all and shrugged, making an almost funny face. "In a way. He's making his Senior debut soon enough and wanted a change. I'm hardly bothered, I've been his coach for quite a while. Henceforth he'll be training with my old coach, Yakov." He took another sip of his champagne. "But let's not talk about that, let's talk about _you_ , Yuuri Katsuki." He leaned further into Yuuri's personal space and Yuuri almost dropped his glass in surprise. "You've won another gold. Congratulations." He practically purred it.

"T-thanks," Yuri stuttered out, finally averting his gaze. He raised his glass to his lips for the sake of doing _something_ and nearly choked as Victor continued.

"You'll surpass me soon."

Yuuri raised his hands, shaking his head wildly. "Never," he said, bewildered. "I'll never be as good as you, never—"

Victor smiled softly but his eyes looked almost sad, suddenly. "Yuuri Katsuki, cool and aloof, world famous figure skater. You're different than I expected, in person," and Yuuri felt faint at his words, felt, finally, the edge of a panic attack coming over him. "But cool and aloof isn't quite right, is it?

Slowly Yuuri moved his free hand up to cover his heart, grasping at the loose material of his suit there. He played it off as a nervous gesture, taking slow, deep breaths through his nose quietly, trying to calm himself.

That's how the world saw him, the magazines, the media, the other skaters. He only rarely went to after event banquets, kept to himself, didn't engage with the others. He wasn't a mingler, and people noticed that. But Victor saw through that, Victor—

"You're just shy," he said and Yuuri's breath caught in his throat. "And awfully modest."

He shrugged and looked away, quietly relieved. Inside he was a mess, shy only through his own nerves, his falling apart at the seams. Victor was unfazed by his awkwardness, seemed almost endeared by it.

But his eyes were still on him, sad all the same, and Yuuri felt more self conscious than ever under that gaze. Victor seemed to consider him for a long moment and finally leaned in, swiping a finger across his cheekbone, more prominent than usual, a hair's breath beneath the dark circles under his eyes.

"A bit of advice," he said softly, lips barely moving. "Take it easy. Don't push yourself too hard."

And then he pulled away, the warmth of his touch noticeably absent from Yuuri's cheek in the wake of it

Yuuri drank enough after that he didn't remember anything past Victor's thumb sliding across his cheek.


	2. Chapter 2

A few weeks into the semester, he fell.

He was practicing too hard, going too fast and performing his jumps too high. He still had no choreography planned for the coming season, no ideas in place, no thoughts to what his music would be, and so he'd been practicing more and more, experimenting with different move sets, with different jump combinations.

And so when he didn't hesitate to jump a quad he'd landed before, more times than not, he went too high, rotated not quite enough. He knew before he landed that he wouldn't land right and he came down awkwardly on his foot, his ankle turning with the force of it, his leg attempting to go in a different direction, sending him sprawling.

He collapsed into a heap with a thud, pain shooting through his ankle, his legs going out from under him.

The thud echoed loud throughout the rink, the few other skaters out on the ice this late at night turning to stare, a few of them heading his way.

But Celestino was by his side first, kneeling down and helping Yuuri struggle upright. He gasped, fingers digging tight into Celestino's arm, and he swore in Japanese, tears springing to his eyes.

It took him a great deal of time to finally remove the skate once they finally got him to the bench. Every unstrung lace sent more pain through him and he did so with increasingly shaky hands, refusing Celestino's help. He finally, after a few minutes, stepped aside to make a phone call and Yuuri watched him through bleary eyes, mind too fogged with pain to make out the rapid fire English he was speaking.

Pulling the skate off was the hardest, sent the most pain through him as it dragged across his ankle, still not loose enough. He let it fall to the ground, throwing his hands down to edge of the bench, catching them in a white knuckled grip. He hung his head in shame as tears finally dropped, gasping with the pain of it.

He'd had plenty of minor injuries through the years, sprains, even a fractured wrist once, from landing funny when he had been younger, but this was the worst.

Celestino came over, squatting before him so they were at eye level. Yuuri refused to look at him, hand now pressed against his mouth to try and quell the coming sobs. "You're going to the hospital," Celestino said grimly and Yuuri frantically shook his head.

"No, no, it's not that bad— It's probably just a— just a sprain," he gasped out, desperate. It wasn't just a sprain, he knew it, but he couldn't face the reality of it. He couldn't bear the thought of knowing what it was.

He didn't cry because it hurt, he cried because this could be the end of his career.

—

"Clean break to the fibula," the doctor told him later, adjusting his glasses. He looked ghastly in the faint glow from the x-ray reader, like something from a nightmare. Fitting. "We'll get it set, fit a cast. We'll get you into rehab, after. But we'll cross that bridge when we get to it."

For two months he'd have to wear the cast. Three months of rehab, after. He'd be out of commission for almost 6 months.

He felt ill, later, as he curled up in his bed later, sobbing. He hadn't dared to ask whether he could ever skate again, couldn't stomach the answer to that question. But it had hung in the air between him and Celestino as the man had helped him hobble from the emergency room on his new crutches.

Probably, but not easily. Not for a while at least.

He was almost 23, his career was already nearing its finality just from his age, and the thought that this hindrance might bring to an end what could easily be one of his last seasons sent him into a downward spiral for the rest of the semester.

His grades didn't suffer, thankfully, but he stayed in his room in the times between classes, curled in his bed. He cried often, his panic attacks coming more frequently, but at some level he was still in denial, determined that this couldn't be the end of the season for him. The Grand Prix was too far away, still, to have any certainty one way or the other.

Maybe he could still make it.

And so at other times he sampled songs, jotting scribbles in the margins of his notes, ideas of jumps, for movements. But it wasn't enough. He had months more to go before he could set foot on the ice again.

He had Phichit, who helped him through it, an unwavering light of hopefulness and joy, but in the times between, when Phichit was in classes or at practice, which was more often than not, he let himself break down.

Celestino visited sometimes, but mostly only called to check in on him.

Eventually his cast came off, and with it the real test of whether or not he would ever recover enough to skate again.

By the time the semester drew to a close, he was barely a month into rehab, growing increasingly frustrated by his struggles there, by how slowly he was improving. "It takes time," the therapist told him, "You broke a pretty important bone. You won't be back to where you were overnight."

It didn't help. His ankle still hurt, though he'd been cleared to walk on it, and it only hurt worse with the rehab.

"I've decided to go home, to Hasetsu," he told Celestino a week later, when he called to check in. "When the semester is over. I need to—" he sighed. "I need to reassess what's next for me." Celestino was quiet for a long while on the other end and Yuuri could sense the quiet relief from the other man in the lingering silence.

—

He flew home less than a week later and he arrived tired and jetlagged.

Minako picked him up from the airport, pulling him into a tight hug the moment she saw him. "Yuuri," she breathed. "You're home."

He wanted to cry, to curl into her and sob out all of the anxiety he felt, the anguish at his injury. But he didn't. He just curled his hands tight against her jacket, instead, and relished in the comfort her hug brought.

When she finally pulled away she stood back, eyes roving over him. He'd always been most comfortable around his family and his long time friends, but now he suddenly felt self conscious beneath her gaze.

"You've lost a lot of weight," she said softly and he averted his eyes, shuffling his feet.

"American food," he murmured with the most forced chuckle he could manage but she didn't push it and he was quietly relieved to not have to elaborate beyond the lie. He hadn't really been eating much, lately. He didn't want to have to tell her that.

His arrival home was met with equal excitement and as many hugs and happy tears. His mother already had katsudon made for him and he picked at it, blaming jetlag for his lack of hunger while his father sat and waxed rhapsodic about his medals, his victories, how proud they all were of him, how excited they were he'd returned home.

"You are the pride of all Japan," his father told him, smiling, and Yuuri's heart broke a little to know it wouldn't last. It might have already been over, but he didn't tell them that.

He'd lied to them during every step of his recovery. "I'll definitely be able to skate again," he'd said, biting back tears. "It's already healing well, I'm ahead of schedule in rehab."

He hadn't been, and he'd come home with a long list of instructions for further exercises, to try and strengthen his ankle. He still hadn't been cleared to skate, but he hardly planned to go back to the doctor for approval. He knew his own limits.

Yuuko was one of the last of his friends he saw, after his return. It took him a solid few days to work up the courage to head to the rink, but she was there when he arrived a bit after dark, locking the door with a concentrated look on her face.

She jumped when she saw him, turning at once to tell him they were closed, but her face lit up at the sight of him and she threw herself at him, arms flying around his neck.

"Yuuri!" she exclaimed, the keys in her hand rattling against his back. "You're mom said you were coming home, but I hadn't realized you were back already!"

Yuuri pulled away awkwardly, shuffling, hoisting his bag higher up his shoulder. "Yeah," he told her. "I flew in a few days ago. Sorry I haven't been by, I uhh—" He trailed off, unsure how to explain himself but her eyes softened and she smiled.

"Your injury," she guessed and he nodded, avoiding eye contact.

"Ankle fracture, yeah. Relatively minor," the lie was easy enough. It had been anything but a minor, routine injury. "I'm alright to skate a bit, if I take it easy. I know you're cloing up now, though, so I can come back later—"

"Nonsense," she said, turning back to the door and hurriedly unlocking it. "You know you're always welcome to skate here, anytime. This is your home rink, after all."

She accompanied him in, grinning and catching him up on the children, on daily life. Hasetsu had been booming lately, she told him, all because of his growing fame. His skating career was revitalizing the town.

She stood by, leaning against the wall and still chatting as he laced up his skates. It was a motion less familiar than it had been, and he did it with some bit of fumbling, tightening the laces more and more until his ankle, throbbing painfully, was snug enough inside he felt comfortable risking skating on it.

It had been four months since his injury and as he finally skated out into the center of the rink, not quite steady but not quite wobbly either, it was like taking his first real breath since the fall. A calm came over him and he skated a few, lazy circles to warm up, relishing the feel of the ice beneath his skates.

At the edge of the rink, Yuuko turned to leave and he called out to her, "You can stay if you like," and she practically beamed. She had always loved watching him skate, from the time they were children and still struggling to stay standing on the slippery ice.

He skated another few, slow circles, to start, finding the music in his mind. Sous le Ciel de Paris, the music he'd used for his short program during the last Grand Prix finals. Melancholy and delicate, like most of the music he skated to.

He started slow, testing the strength of his ankle as he increased his speed, feeling relatively confident in it's ability to withstand what he was envisioning in his mind. It ached, deep down to the freshly healed bone, but that was a different matter. It wouldn't crumple beneath him.

He remembered his program from the finals, how intense it had been, how high he had jumped, the number of quads he'd pulled off in the second half. It had been one of his favorites of his career so far, and the crowd had thought so too.

Now, though, he was incapable of that, and so as he moved, he dropped the more complex parts of the program, losing the step combination that had been at the beginning, a series of taps across the ice that he knew his ankle could no longer withstand.

He made the first jump, though, unable to resist. It was a minor one, beautiful, though, in its simplicity. A waltz jump, with no rotations but a simple spin from one direction to the other. His ankle protested in pain as he landed it and launched into the first spin, but he didn't so much as wobble as he moved.

His leg barely stretched as he raised it behind him, escalating the spin, and his muscles burned at the pull and he cursed himself for not maintaining his flexibility. He had lost all the grace from the real performance, a shadow of what he once was. His movements were stiff and rough.

And he struggled with a simple, sweeping glide that sent him to the outer edges of the rink, his ankle too sore, his coordination now too poor to easily control his direction. He narrowly missed the rinks edge by what felt like a hair's breath and continued on, the speed of his momentum enough to dare another small jump, which he barely landed this time.

His heart beat fast in his chest, his body trilling with the excitement and adrenaline of being on the ice again and by the end of the watered down performance he barely felt the throb in his ankle, barely noticed the ache in the unused muscles of his legs and arms.

But he was tired, all the same, as he finally spun to a stop, hands and arms trembling as he brought them forward in front of him. He was anything but a picture of grace, but it felt so good to be back on the ice again that he hardly cared.

Yuuko, when he finally turned to look at her, had her jaw hanging open, eyes wide, hands clasped in front of her in delight. "Yuuri," she said, "Yuuri that was breathtaking, that was phenomenal, that was—"

"Amazing, so amazing—" several voices chimed in and her daughters poked their heads up over the dasher board, clinging to it with awkward, chubby limbs. "You're the best Yuuri!" They squealed in near unison and Yuuri flushed, laughing and scratching at the back of his head.

One of the girls held a phone and she fumbled with it, eyes on it while the other two only had eyes for him and his performance.

It had been a mediocre comparison to the real program, watered down and softer, stripped of all of it's best technical aspects that had landed him the gold, and he felt almost embarrassed to have them all gushing over it like it was his greatest feat.

But the girls were soon enough distracted by their phone, passing it back and forth between them, giggling and shooting him excited looks. He skated over, eyeing them warily, certain they were up to mischief, but neither Yuuri nor Takeshi, who arrived a few minutes later, seemed concerned.

Yuuko bubbled over at him in happiness, pulling him once more into a hug and Takeshi slapped him on the back as he exited the rink, slipping on his guards.

"Are you going to skate in the Grand Prix this year?" Yuuko asked as he slowly unlaced his skates. He blinked up at her in surprise, pulling off his skate.

"Of course," he said. Of course he was going to skate it. He was a candidate for the World Championships if he scored high enough in his technicals this year, would have been the previous year but he'd only just topped out over the other potential picks. He couldn't let his injury get in the way.

A thought seemed to cross her face but she turned it away, nodding. "You'll do great," she said. "And of course you're welcome to skate here anytime. This is your home rink,, now." She reached out and caught his arm as he stood. "You're the pride of Hasetsu, after all."

—

He found out the next morning what mischief the triplets had been up to when he rolled over groggily to discover his phone had blown up with notifications over night. He swiped it open, still too tired to really process it, only to discover he had been tagged on instagram in a video, the video that had elicited the notification storm.

It was a minute long video from his weak performance the night before, uploaded to Instagram from an account that, as far as he could tell, was managed by the triplets.

'Katsuki Yuuri recreates stunning Grand Prix 2015 performance at home rink in Hasetsu, returning to ice for first time since injury earlier this year!' It read in broken English beneath its Japanese, and Yuuri would've been amazed at their careful use of grammar and spelling at such a young age had he not been so horrified.

He only watched a few short moments of the video, starting where he had dropped from his first spin, before he tossed his phone aside, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes to try and fight the coming tears.

He was sloppy, barely even a distant echo of what he had once been, and now the whole world would witness it. The video had already been shared too many times to control and he drew a sharp breath, and then another, until he was on the verge of hyperventilating, shaking and curled into himself, hands buried in his hair.

He had kept his injury carefully under wraps, had hidden it as best he could. He'd barely left his dorm in the months following, so not being seen on crutches was certainly the easiest part. But not being seen on the rink had been harder.

Celestino had covered for him regarding any inquiries, had lied for him only when Yuuri had pushed him to. And Yuuri knew that other skaters suspected, Phichit himself knew but had remained complicit in his determination not to let it get out.

And of course the media had speculated, but that was really as far as it had gone and the suspicions died down after a few months.

And there it was, now, plastered across instagram for the world to see how weak he had become. He was a failure and now everyone else knew it too.

Beside him his phone set to vibrating rapidly, a phone call coming in. He snatched it up but could barely read the name through his tears. He blinked them back, rubbing at his face. It was Yuuko.

Her voice was something close to exasperated and angry in his ear, frantic in its speed. "Yuuri, Yuuri— I'm so so sorry, I had—" Her voice cut away, becoming quieter and he could hear her shouting "Stop giggling girls, or I'll take the phone away!" and then she was back, breathless. "I had no idea they'd recorded you, I didn't even realize until—" she sighed, leaving no room or pause for him to speak. "I'll make them delete it—"

He cut in quick, trying to steady his voice as he finally spoke. His voice shook anyway and he prayed she couldn't tell he'd been crying. "No, it's— It's fine. It's alright, really."

And it wasn't, but it was too late now.

—

His world took an even sharper turn a few days later.

He'd gone to skate again, to start training again, properly, and he was skating wide, sweeping strokes across the ice, testing the flexibility in his ankle. He'd struggled to control his movements during his last time on the ice and he was determined to try and work that out, to improve what little movement his ankle gave him now.

It hurt worse than ever, after his skate the few days prior, his leg muscles protesting, even his arms almost like jello, but he powered through. He'd have to reacquaint himself to the movements, to retrain his muscles from the beginning, and he was frustrated at the thought of having to learn to skate again from the beginning, like a child.

He'd pushed the video from before out of his mind and Yuuko had ensured he would remain uninterrupted. Already, the headlines had been appearing 'Yuuri Katsuki, injured?' and 'Will Yuuri Katsuki be skating the Grand Prix this year, after a debilitating injury?'

Eventually he'd shut off his phone, refusing to use it, unable to take the torment of headline after headline questioning his career, email after email begging for an interview, for some information.

He was already questioning his own future, he didn't need to see the figure skating world speculating on it too.

But he would skate this year's Grand Prix, even if it killed him.

Sighing, he spun, testing his ankle's movement as he did so, trying to remember which ways he struggled to move the most so he could correct it, and then he moved faster again, picking up enough speed for a jump. It was for the sake of testing where he needed to improve than for the sake of the jump itself, but he couldn't deny the breathtaking feeling of his body leaving the ice, if only for a moment.

His landing, wobbly but correct, was interrupted by a small burst of applause and Yuuri spun so fast he nearly crashed to the ice.

At the edge of the rink stood Victor Nikiforov, now leaning against the dasher board as if he had not a care in the world, a small smile gracing his features.

What was he doing here? What was he—

"Well done," he said with enthusiasm and Yuuri couldn't tell if he meant it or not. "But have you been cleared for jumps yet?"

Yuuri hesitated where he stood, frozen in place, heart pounding too fast, not from the adrenaline of his skating but to see Victor there, having seen his struggles. And before he could stop himself he was gasping down each breath as if it were his last, hands balled into fists, head hung to try and hide the panic he was feeling.

"Yuuri!" Victor called again in his thick Russian accent and it seemed to break the spell enough that Yuuri was able to compose himself enough to skate over to him.

"What are—" Yuuri took a deep breath and frowned, hands gripping the barrier where he had come to stand just beside Victor. He forced himself to make eye contact, hoping beyond hope that Victor couldn't see the anxiety written across his face. "What are you doing here? In-In Japan?"

The sight of him here, at his own home rink, was unthinkable. This was the rink he'd gathered at with the other young skaters to watch Victor Skate, when he'd been in Juniors so many years earlier. And now the man stood here, in person, a peculiar look across his face, same charismatic smile gracing his features that had been there at the Grand Prix Banquet.

"You still plan to skate the Grand Prix this year, yes, Yuuri?" he asked and Yuuri tightened his grip, swallowing down the lump forming in his throat.

"H-hai—" he paused, hesitant. English felt almost awkward, now, on his tongue after a full week without it, and he nodded. "Yes," he corrected quietly. "That's the plan right now."

Victor's entire face lit up and it made Yuuri feel warm, despite the chill of the evening, of the ice beneath him. "Then you'll need help," Victor said. "Yuuri, I want to be your coach for this season, if you'll allow it."

* * *

 _A/N:_

 _So Yuuri's performance at the Grand Prix, which he kind of performs in this chapter, is based around the performance in the Short Program of Evgenia Medvedeva at the 2016 Grand Prix final. Same song as well. You can search youtube for it, if you'd like a visual._

 _I watched it about a dozen times when writing that scene, so I could best try to capture it's essence._

 _(Evgenia won gold at the Grand Prix, by the way)_


End file.
